Jeanne D'Arc: her life and death eBook

The fate of Troyes decided that of Chalons, the only
other important town on the way, the gates of which
were thrown open as Charles and his army, which grew
and increased every day, proceeded on its road.
Every promise of the Maid had been so far accomplished,
both in the greater object and in the details:
and now there was nothing between Charles the disinherited
and almost ruined Dauphin of three months ago, trying
to forget himself in the seclusion and the sports
of Chinon—­and the sacred ceremonial which
drew with it every tradition and every assurance of
an ancient and lawful throne.

Jeanne had her little adventure, personal to herself
on the way. Though there were neither posts nor
telegraphs in those days, there has always been a
strange swift current in the air or soil which has
conveyed news, in a great national crisis, from one
end of the country to the other. It was not so
great a distance to Domremy on the Meuse from Troyes
on the Loire, and it appears that a little group of
peasants, bolder than the rest, had come forth to
hang about the road when the army passed and see what
was so fine a sight, and perhaps to catch a glimpse
of their payse, their little neighbour, the
commere who was godmother to Gerard d’Epinal’s
child, the youthful gossip of his young wife—­but
who was now, if all tales were true, a great person,
and rode by the side of the King. They went as
far as Chalons to see if perhaps all this were true
and not a fable; and no doubt stood astonished to see
her ride by, to hear all the marvellous tales that
were told of her, and to assure themselves that it
was truly Jeanne upon whom, more than upon the King,
every eye was bent. This small scene in the midst
of so many great ones would probably have been the
most interesting of all had it been told us at any
length. The peasant travellers surrounded her
with wistful questions, with wonder and admiration.
Was she never afraid among all those risks of war,
when the arrows hailed about her and the bouches
de feu, the mouths of fire, bellowed and flung
forth great stones and bullets upon her? “I
fear nothing but treason,” said the victorious
Maid. She knew, though her humble visitors did
not, how that base thing skulked at her heels, and
infested every path. It must not be forgotten
that this wonderful and victorious campaign, with all
its lists of towns taken and armies discomfited, lasted
six weeks only, almost every day of which was distinguished
by some victory.

(1) The former story was written in
1429, by the Greffier of Rochelle. “I
will yield me only to her, the most valiant woman
in the world.” The Greffier was writing
at the moment, but not, of course, as an eyewitness.—­A.
L.